The Lord Morte's Travelling Show of the Strange and Wonderful
by indie-arrow
Summary: The show appears out of convenience, like a trick of fate or perhaps something more.


A/N:

Hello! I'm Indie and this is kinda like my first multichapter thing / the first big fanfic I've posted here.

I didn't get it beta'd because I'm pretty scared of interaction with other human beings soooooo, here we are.

You and I. I and you.

Enjoy! (Eventually, this will have soulxmaka stuff so heads up for those who don't ship it.)

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><p>Maka swallowed, eyeing the sign with wary sea glass eyes.<p>

_Lord Morte's Travelling Show of the Strange_ _and Wonderful._

The sign depicted in peeling paint of black and white, curling calligraphy like licorice. She took a deep breath and pulled her coat closer around her, concealing her body under the thick, khaki cotton.

A freak show. Finding is was of convenience, like a trick of fate or something more, the marvellous tent stood adjacent to the camp site of caravans. The black and white stripes harboured shadows of unsettling shapes that pushed her to carry on. It was night time, lanterns illuminating the pathway where several caravans stood. The caravans were painted in crimsons, yellows and blacks. So delicate and pretty like china dolls in rows.

It was so quiet, albeit the cicadas of summer and the occasional mumble of a radio. She expected loud, everything would have been loud in her mind. Tents, pulled up and striped like red and white bumble bees. Music, haunting and crooked playing without fail. But this whisper of a night crushed her over active imagination.

"Can I help ya?" A gruff voice spooked Maka, the grip on her suitcase bleaching her knuckles with shock. A man, or boy, stood outside a caravan. A cigarette hung from his lip, breathing dusty smoke into the night air. Perhaps it was the faint glow from the lanterns, but his eyes seemed to be as red as the caravans painted walls.

"Do you know where the owner's caravan might be?" She asked him, voice as bold as it could be in a carnival of dangerous people. He gave her a once over, drinking in her coat and suitcase. She fought to make her expression placid and still.

"You don't look like one of us, why're you here?" She shifted on her feet, case growing as heavy as lead in her gloved hands.

"I'll find him myself." The monstrosities that hung limp from her back increased the fatigue glowering in the back of her mind like a slowly blooming lilac flower. The strange boy made a 'tch' sound in the back of his throat and mumbled a few colourful curses under his smoggy breath. A pair of braces kept his messy form together, although slouched and crooked like broken bones, his shirt remained tucked neatly and sharply. His flaxen eyebrows knitted together before she removed him from her gaze.

Leaving snowy hair and burning red coals behind her, she followed the path marked out through the rows of the caravans. Maka gathered strange looks from the lingering 'wonders' outside in the lights. A girl covered neck to feet in ink flowers gave her a small wary smile, Maka cracked a polite grin back.

The biggest caravan of them all stood proudly at the centre, draped in the night sky and bathed with the rich scent of the stars. Thick gathers of cloth swathed the entrance, just by the door. She gingerly knocked on the door frame.

Would they take her? Would they leave her? She dreaded each and every moment like a lingering wound on her foot, each step agony. Maka had heard speak of this show, it appeared and disappeared like a phantom of a show at the most convenient of times. People go missing, people die, the word spreads. But, that wouldn't stop her from joining.

Fear is a strength.

"Hello, hello, how are you?" Maka was pulled into the caravan by a tall man. His tailcoat curled into springy spirals and a porcelain mask pulled taut with elastic around his ears. She stared into pitch black wells of eyes for a second, trying to catch herself up.

"Suitcase? Why are you here, missy?" For the Lord Morte, he was very cheery. The thin pale face peeking from under his skull shaped mask didn't match the rosy voice that came as simply as the sparrows in the summer. Almost comical for the ringleader of a freak show.

"I've come to join the show." The man crossed his legs on his small wicker chair, stroking his chin with a large hand shielded with white dress gloves. His hair hung limp and shiny off of his head, coloured the same pitch black as his eyes. Like ink and feathers, the essence of a flock of crows.

"You look normal and sweet, why would you want to join such a place?"

The next move settled her fate. The smell of smoke and rich fragrances attacked her nostrils. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes from the pungent smell of aromatic spices as she shucked off her trench coat and set the suitcase on the creaky wooden flooring. She turned her back, showing the two vile factors that drove her to this place.

"Oh my." Were the only words that the Lord Morte could say as he saw the two limp masses of feather drop from her back and tug on her skin painfully.

They were abnormally large swan wings, painfully sewn on with a thick, black thread which the skin had begun to heal around grotesquely in a manner of adaptation. Lord Morte's once carefree and rosy exterior had now dropped to a serious and quiet tone.

"Who would do such a thing?" The once cheery ringleader asked, "Is it causing you pain?"

Maka reeled, recalling the events and sharply batting them away before she let the story pass her lips.

"I keep myself to myself," she started with a bold breath, narrowing her green eyes at the man, "Surely, you don't listen to every sad story that barges into this freak show. So, why would mine matter?" She balled her fists, feeling as if she was on the edge of potent anger, "yes, it hurts, but it doesn't make me any less able than any other freak here."

"Welcome to the carnival, child." He straightened his back up to loom over her, inkwells burning into the back of her mind. Her frozen fingers sought out the string she used to bundle up the wings, precariously darting it around to fold them back into her cloak. Tying a knot, she exhaled, this is what she wanted; to fit in at least. Dread spiced a sickly cocktail of anxiety, churning in the pit of her stomach. Her head screamed, kicked and punched for her to leave and keep her secrets tied up with a single length of string. She brought the coat back over her shoulders, camouflaging the wings under heavy fabric.

But this was her moment to drop that string into the dust. To kick up her thoughts and wash them away as she would cobwebs and that layer of dust that liked to linger on her books after a week of neglect or so.

"I'll go over a few ground rules first: treat others as you would want to be treated and there's a curfew of eleven o'clock for your own safety." Maka lifted her head in a slight nod, her hand coming upwards to tug on a strand of dishwater blonde hair out of habit. Lord Morte was a buxom man. His morbid and sinister exterior being a proud martyr for the show. Lord _Death's _Travelling Show of the Strange and Wonderful. The word death ran circles in Maka's mind like a show pony around the dusty circus floor, "I'll have the girls to take you to a caravan, …" He waited with baited breath.

"Maka" Under the tooth coloured mask, a thin lipped smile cracked onto Lord Morte's face. She could hear the jolly grin in his voice,

"Favourite one, hm?" He continued his animated march, the tailcoat springing into bobbing curls each time. The steps creaked under his weight, tipping the caravan to each side with one eager push of his boots. Maka's lips allowed a ghost of a smile to flicker like a dripping wax candle before following the blithesome man into the chilly bite of the night.

She pushed the dusk coloured curtain from the caravan's arched doorway and let the raw air nip at her neck and hands. Each step caused the caravan to moan under the heels of her monochrome saddle shoes.

A pair of girls stood by the caravan over, a red dress stretched over the two of them. A candle flickered inside the burgundy caravan, illuminating the wheat hair of one sister like a field fire. The pair of hard candy blue eyes trained on to Maka, the idle chat coming to a stop with their stilled red lips that reminded Maka of the models she'd seen in magazines and on movie posters.

"Liz, Patty, this is Maka." The taller, wheat haired girl gave Maka a wary once over. Whilst her sister, the shorter platinum bobbed one, flashed a bright smile and sparkling eyes of wonder as she saw Maka.

"She's new, show her somewhere to sleep, please" Lord Morte gestured offhandedly with a large, glove covered hand. The cotton smooth and wrinkle free unlike the sliver of the man's jaw that peeked from under his mask. Her thoughts travelled and she began to wonder who and what she'd meet. The boy made of coals and smoke seemed miserable and something of a slacker. Which, she had never once been in her life. Learning, reading and writing; Maka Albarn was a guardian of all knowledge. Seeing it more fit than brawn to duel.

Only a fool fights with a book in her hand. Yet, only a winner fights with the power of mind.

The taller girl ,who seemed to be made of crimson silk and fields of wilting straw, gave an audible sigh. The smoke passing her plump, pink lips like a tumbling cascade of gloom. The cigarette was tossed onto the floor and crushed under the black boots of the girl. Her smile was almost bored as she gestured for Maka to go ahead.

"Thank you, girls. Have a nice night." And with that, the Lord Morte melted into the shadows of the caravans, tailcoat dancing as it moulded within the nightfall.

Liz made a pointed look at Maka, who was still watching the shadows with a gaunt look on her face.

"You'll get used to him, kid." Her voice was smooth and distinctly of the shadows. Of the monsters that lurked in the dark, the curiosities and the wonders. Something about it comforted Maka, perhaps, it was that she had called herself a monster so many times that the voice reminded her of the shadows she had hid in for so long.

Her sister, Patty, grinned manically. Looking back at Maka, then at Liz, bouncing on the spot with a happy squeal.

"I knew that Kim wasn't lyin' when she said an Angel would be among us, I told ya' sis!" Patty playfully punched her sister in the shoulder and guffawed when Liz winced. They were a strange dynamic, Maka observed as she watched the conjoined sisters argue a very animated fight.

"Wait, how could you have possibly known about-"

"The wings, caravans ain't so soundproof kid. Sorry about your messed up childhood, but, look around. This place thrives on that kind of shit." Liz waved Maka's confusion off, leaving her surprised and slightly attentive. It seemed that not all secrets were safe in this place.

"Luckily, we have an open caravan. Some guy was kicked out last week."

How could one be kicked out of a freak show? Patty caught Liz's uneasy state and took advantage,

"Or, he was taken by _**Medusa!**_" Liz jumped at Patty's sudden abrupt change of volume. It dawned onto Maka that Liz wasn't as stony and nonchalant as she seemed. A façade like this entire show.

"Medusa?" Maka's curiosity had yet again gotten the better of her. Poking and prodding at her brain like a familiar friend.

"She was a snake charmer here, gave me the heeby-jeebies as a kid, hung around with these giant snakes around her neck. Anyway, she left after having an argument with the boss man. Now, rumour has it that she's taking us."

Maka followed the girls with a more careful step, checking the overshadow behind her for a leering snake the size of herself. Just to be safe, she told herself. Joining this show had the price of a target being painted across her back.

"Yeah sis, I'm surprised that she hasn't taken us yet." Patty leaned a finger onto her chin, staring into the dim glow of the dying lanterns. Liz mumbled profanity at her sister, rustling the fabric of their burgundy dress with fidgety hands.

Maka's eyes lingered on the craftsmanship of that dress, it's fine stitches in deep red. The lace hanging from the hem with a fineness that Maka had seen from professional tailors. Surely, the dress wasn't from a professional tailor in the city. The cost would be the first problem, their abnormality being the second. Unless, there was a professional tailor on sight.

"So, what can you do? You've got to earn your keep in the show." Liz tossed some flax hair over her shoulder in a glamorous manner. She could've been a model, Maka thought, both Liz and Patty, in fact. Rose petal lips and stunning blue eyes, a curvaceous figure under a pretty dress.

"I'm not a performer."

Patty scoffed, waving her arm in the air,

"What're you going to do then, miss Angel?" Maka frowned, partly from thought and partly from that nickname.

"Whatever I'm asked of," silence fell onto the sisters, except for a few knowing glances at each other. Did the sharing of one body mean shared minds also?

"Well, here we are, enjoy." Liz took a honeyed smile at Maka, bitter and choking. Maka could only reply with a small smile of her own, ignoring how tired Liz looked behind her fancily powdered face and pretty dress. She wondered how many other people she had shown to caravans, how many she'd seen sick to their stomach. The site was large, more than thirty people here she guessed. How could they all move from site to site, Maka was intrigued by this thought. Unless, they had some form of magic, it would be impossible and a lot of traffic.

"Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite!" Patty waved from behind her cheerily. Not a hint of bitterness that Liz had without effort like it was carved into the base workings of her system.

The caravan was simple, a small cot-like bench for a beck against the back wall. A dull blanket thrown hastily over the cot and a flat pillow to join. The rest of the caravan was dotted and splashed with rich colours, the benches along one side being one. They were a rich peach suede type fabric, brushing to a darker shade under her exploring fingertips. Not worn out, the previous owner didn't spend a lot of time in here. The cast iron stove sat at the other wall, rusting only slightly at it's ridges and corners. Cobwebs were drawn to the bookcase attached to the wall, Maka's favourite part of the caravan.

She began to unpack her small case, unfolding the simple coloured dresses onto the bench with care. Maka never had the luxury or care for pretty dresses; why would a girl of her tastes ever need one. She felt the same way about make up and fancily twisted hair, leaving her complexion pale and her hair in simple styles and down around her shoulders.

"Well, well, well, fresh meat huh?" Maka swore she could've jumped a mile out of the caravan. Especially since she was particularly edgy after hearing about Medusa. The voice, it turned out, was actually the white haired boy she had the unfortunate run into.

She folded her arms,

"What's it to you?" Maka couldn't help but cringe as she realised how childish that sounded. Her nose could've been pointed to the ceiling in true spite, but she wouldn't let him have that sliver of her guilty pleasure. She had been acting too mature for too long.

"It's something to me, angel." It seemed that the word of her hiring was spreading quicker than a wildfire. Her neckline burned with embarrassment, finding a mixture of pure hatred and humiliation for that nickname she had been bestowed with, "Anyway, Ox never kept matches. Was above all of us smokers so, I brought you some matches for the lamps."

He tossed the matches onto the bench, gave her an almost believable grin of razor sharp canines and turned on his heel and started to walk away. Kicking up dust with his beat up shoes. Brown cracked leather with scuffs of sand and dust.

That boy didn't even tell her his name, how inconsiderate. She scoffed and turned the matchbox over in her hands. The paper was worn around the edges from being kept in his pockets, the logo ,once bold in sharp printed ink, had almost scuffed away. The albino boy wasn't one for looking after his possessions, she noted. There were barely a handful of matches left. At least he wasn't cruel enough to leave her with none.

How cruel would that have been, maybe he wasn't the stony character she believed him to be.

She struck a match up the side of the matchbox, igniting it with a small flame. The lamp rose from it's slumber, illuminating the caravan with a wavering shimmer.

"Home sweet home," she mumbled into the dark.

Home sweet home indeed.


End file.
